


singin' in the rain

by sylwrites



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, meet cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-24 17:21:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16644506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylwrites/pseuds/sylwrites
Summary: Jughead meets Betty on a Wednesday.He’s fiddling with his phone while on the 2 to downtown, his back relaxed casually into the hard plastic of the train seats for the long-ish trip. When the train squeaks to a stop at Times Square, a flood of people exit. Moments later, even more board, and she is one of them..A meet-cute, and the aftermath.





	singin' in the rain

  
  


_ Let the stormy clouds chase everyone from the place  
_ _ Come on with the rain, I've a smile on my face _

  
  
  


Jughead meets Betty on a Wednesday. 

 

He’s fiddling with his phone while on the 2 to downtown, his back relaxed casually into the hard plastic of the train seats for the long-ish trip. When the train squeaks to a stop at Times Square, a flood of people exit. Moments later, even more board, and she is one of them.

 

He notices her first, which is surprising. As a general rule - owing partly to the basic tenets of his personality and partly to the fact that  _ no, he doesn’t want to buy your CD,  _ Jughead doesn’t pay attention to other people when he’s on the subway. Ignoring everyone has always worked out pretty well, so he sticks to it. 

 

But today, for whatever reason, the click of heels makes his head snap up. They’re on the feet of a blonde woman who’s probably about five-seven without them, carrying a professional-looking leather satchel, and wearing a sleeveless ice-blue blouse tucked into a perfectly-fitted charcoal grey pencil skirt. The matching blazer, which she’s holding open in both of her hands as though it were on a hanger, is damp; clearly, she’d forgotten her umbrella.

 

The woman hurriedly click-clacks over to where he’s seated and sits next to him. She’s very pretty, Jughead immediately registers. Her face has the kind of doe-eyed, full-lipped appeal that he sees in beautiful paintings on his occasional weekend trips to the Met; it hits him unexpectedly, as though he hadn’t realized that people could look that way in real life and not just on canvas.

 

Just as Jughead realizes that he’s staring, the woman turns to him with the tension of panic in her eyes, pushes her handbag at him, and in a harried but exceedingly polite tone, asks, “Can you please hold this for a moment?”

 

He blinks at her. “Okay,” he responds, even though the bag is already on his lap and she’s begun to shake the blazer in what is clearly an attempt to quick-dry it. She lets out a sigh of frustration when it becomes apparent that it’s not working, and starts to carefully fold it across her lap.

 

When she’s done, she reaches over and retrieves her bag from him. “Thank you,” she says graciously, unclasping it and digging in. She comes up with a small mirror, checking ... what, Jughead doesn’t know, but everything seems fine to him - then puts it back and releases a heavy sigh.

 

Jughead offers a half-smile. “Long day?” he guesses.

 

The woman shakes her head, but it’s the sort of movement that says  _ what a day,  _ not  _ no.  _ “I have a job interview today,” she tells him, “and I’ve been so nervous and worked up about preparing for it that I forgot to check the weather before I left my apartment. And of all the days it could be raining-”

 

“Oh, it’s started?” Jughead interrupts, reaching for his own messenger bag, which is locked between his feet on the floor of the train car. His phone had informed him this morning that rain was in the forecast, so he’d thrown his compact umbrella in his bag just in case. It hadn’t yet by the time he’d reached the subway, but the sky had looked angry.

 

“Yes,” the woman confirms morosely. “God, what a failure. I am usually so much more organized than this, I swear, but I’ve been waiting for an interview at HarperCollins for _ ever,  _ and this is my foot in the door and I can’t screw it up. But now I’m going to go in looking either like my head or my jacket has been dunked in the Hudson, and who wants to hire someone for an editorial assistant position who can’t even be bothered to check a  _ weather app,  _ honestly -”

 

Jughead watches her as she rambles on. Listening to her is against most of his public-transit rules, but it’s clear that she really needs to let this out, so he doesn’t stop her.

 

She does, however, stop herself, and has the grace to flush with embarrassment. “Oh my god, Betty,” she says, obviously to herself, “a stranger on the subway does  _ not  _ care about your ineptitude. I am so sorry, I’m - it’s fine.” She takes a deep breath in, then exhales slowly. “Everything is fine.”

 

Jughead looks at her with amusement. God help him, but something about this is … charming. “It’s okay.” He glances down to his feet, where he can feel the umbrella in his bag, and before he can second-guess himself, he reaches down and pulls it out. “Would you like to borrow my umbrella?” 

 

The woman - Betty, he supposes - stares back at him, confusion knitting her brows together. “What?”

 

“My umbrella,” he repeats, tapping it gently against her wrist. “Sounds like you have an important appearance to make this morning. My boss won’t care if I’m a little disheveled. Besides, I’ve got the hat.” He touches the beanie that sits atop his head. It’s a habit more than anything; he doesn’t wear it once he gets to the office, but so far it’s still along for the commute.

 

Betty tilts her head a little, still obviously unsure but now with what he thinks is a slight spark of hope in her eyes. “You don’t even know me,” she says. “Why would you offer me your umbrella?”

 

He shrugs, then pulls his arm back - a bit awkward given that they’re sitting beside one another - and sticks his hand out. “My name is Jughead.”

 

She shakes it. Her hands are really soft. “Betty,” she introduces herself. “I - sorry, did you say Jughead?”

 

“Old, stupid nickname,” he dismisses, “but it stuck.”

 

“Oh.” She nods slowly, her cheeks still pink. “Well, are you - look, I’m not going to pretend like I don’t want the umbrella, because you saw my little miniature breakdown, but are you  _ sure?” _

 

Jughead nods. “Sure. Seems like you need it.”

 

Betty’s eyes fill with grateful tears, and for a moment Jughead is terrified that she’s going to cry on the train. She doesn’t, but she does sniff, grasp his hand, and squeeze it before accepting the umbrella from him. “Thank you,” she says softly. “Really.” She places it on her lap, then pulls her phone out of her bag. “Can I - will you give me your information, so I can get it back to you?”

 

“It’s just a shitty umbrella,” Jughead replies, turning back to face the knees of the person standing in front of him.  _ It’s not a big deal,  _ he wants to add. He doesn’t need to burden this girl with his prolonged company. 

 

“Please,” Betty presses. “I’ll bring it back to you. With - a drink to thank you, or a coffee sometime, maybe?”

 

He looks over at her again. She’s chewing on the corner of her lower lip and her fingers are making minute movements across her phone screen. She’s  _ nervous,  _ he realizes, she’s -

 

“Unless you have a - someone,” Betty continues, her face even redder now. “Which of course you do, I’m - god, today is  _ not -” _

 

She’s asking him out.

 

_ Oh.  _

 

“Yeah,” he blurts. “I mean,  _ no,  _ I don’t have a someone, and  _ yeah,  _ I’d - a coffee or a drink sounds awesome.” 

 

Betty exhales, a little puff of relief that’s accompanied by a shy but bright smile. “Okay,” she says, her smile widening. “Um. So your number?”

 

“Right.” Jughead shakes his own head now -  _ you’re such a dumbass,  _ he tells himself,  _ seriously -  _ then leans over and taps his phone number into the waiting contact entry on her phone.

 

The train lurches to a stop. Betty glances up at the screen to check the location - they’ve already gone through a few stops, but he’s on his way to the Financial District and he knows they’re not that far yet - and almost yelps. “Ah, this is my stop,” she gasps, hopping to her feet. She gathers her things in her arms, including his umbrella, and adds a quick, “Thanks, Jughead!” before sprinting through the open doors.

 

“Good luck!” he calls, but she’s already gone.

 

.

.

.

 

His work day passes as it usually does: a few meetings, a few hours of staring at his computer screen, and a few breaks (during which time he’s definitely not checking his phone obsessively to see if anyone’s contacted him). He drinks one too many cups of coffee, as usual, and grabs lunch from a food truck with his coworker Toni, who ditches him under an awning part way through a taco when her girlfriend calls. It is, all in all, a perfectly fine, normal day.

 

At six, Jughead leaves his office and heads to the train to meet a friend for dinner. He’s no stranger to being less-than-popular with women, and as a coping mechanism years ago he’d started assuming, by default, that any interest shown in him was by mistake. So by the time he’s settled into a booth a greasy diner on the edge of Koreatown and Archie is across from him, yammering about his ever-present relationship problems, Jughead has managed to push his thoughts of the pretty girl from the train to the back of his mind.

 

That is, until his phone buzzes.

 

He usually doesn’t check his cell when he’s with people - it’s rude, no matter what anyone says - but Archie does it constantly to him, so Jughead hums at him in affirmation of whatever probably misguided but well-meaning rant is being espoused and glances at his notifications.

 

**_Hi, it’s Betty. From the train_ ** _ ,  _ the message reads. 

 

Jughead glances up at Archie before tapping out a quick reply.  **_Hey, how did the interview go?_ **

 

His burger arrives just as Betty’s response is coming in. It takes all the willpower he has to have a bite of his food before checking, but he manages. The burger is as good as it always is, but he’s also not picky: all burgers are good burgers.

 

**_It went really well, I think :) All thanks to your umbrella saving the day._ **

 

Jughead smiles at that; it’s been a while since he’s met anyone remotely interesting, and even though he doesn’t know anything about this girl, he likes that he was able to help improve her day in some way, however small. He’s thinking of what to reply when a second message comes in, asking him,  **_Any chance you’re free this weekend so that I can return it and buy you a thank-you drink?_ **

 

_ Holy shit,  _ he thinks. She still wants to go out. She’s had all day to think about it and her decision is still  _ yes.  _

 

“Jug.”

 

His head snaps up. Archie is looking at him, one eyebrow arched, his fingers grasping fries. “What?”

 

“You’re smiling at your phone,” Archie informs him. “You’re  _ using  _ your phone, for one, and you’re  _ smiling  _ at it. Clearly my story about Veronica is not entertaining enough for you, so why don’t you tell me what’s going on in your world?”

 

Jughead rolls his eyes and puts his phone away after typing out a quick,  **_Absolutely_ ** _.  _ “Nothing’s going on, I - not yet, anyway. I met a girl on the train this morning.”

 

“Oh  _ really,”  _ Archie says, leaning across the table with a shit-eating grin on his face. “A  _ girl.” _

 

Jughead rolls his eyes. “Should I buy us some ice cream while we braid each other’s hair?”

 

Archie laughs and relaxes back into the booth. “Come on, man. It’s not every day that you even talk to a stranger, let alone get someone’s number intentionally.”

 

Jughead can acknowledge the accuracy in Archie’s statement, and while he doesn’t think he’s done terribly with women, he has to admit that Archie’s got a fair bit more experience than he does, especially when it comes to the prerequisite digital flirtation stage.

 

So he sighs and rests his elbows on the table. “Fine. It was raining, she started talking to me, and I ended up loaning her my umbrella. I was just gonna give it to her - it’s a pretty shitty umbrella, so no big loss - but she took my number to arrange a return and then asked me out.”

 

“And now she’s texting you,” Archie surmises.

 

“Now she’s texting me,” Jughead confirms. He looks at his phone; she hasn’t responded, but he’d only given her a one-word answer. “Or she was.” He glances up at Archie. “What do I do now?”

 

Archie shrugs. “Be yourself, man.  _ She  _ asked  _ you  _ out, so whatever you were doing - that worked.”

 

“Be myself.” Jughead stares at him. “Seven girlfriends in the last year and a half and your sage advice is  _ be myself.”  _

 

Archie shoves another fry in his mouth. “It’s only six. Geraldine was two years ago.”

 

Jughead makes a face at the memory of Archie’s much-older ex, whom he’d not been a fan of. She was divorced, in her early forties, and clearly only looking to live out some sort of Mrs. Robinson fantasy. Everything about it had rubbed him the wrong way, and when she and Archie split, Jughead hadn’t exactly been sad about it.

 

“Anyway,” Archie continues, “pretty sure having six girlfriends in a year and a half just means I’m a shitty boyfriend. Or I keep picking the wrong girls. Or who knows. Either way, are you sure you want to take advice from me?”

 

“You offered it!” 

 

“Scammers in Times Square are offering tickets to meet God, that doesn’t mean you need to take it, bro!”

 

Jughead takes a large bite of his burger and shakes his head. He must be worse off than he’d realized if he’s actively seeking input from someone who goes through girlfriends like old socks, he thinks, and things must be getting truly desperate if  _ Archie  _ is the one to point it out to him. It is definitely time for a subject change.

 

“Tell me more about this Veronica thing,” he says through half-chewed food.

 

.

.

.

 

Jughead opts not to text Betty again until he’s home and settled at his apartment, which takes another hour. When he does contact her, he decides to start off with a peace offering of sorts - a photo of his near-obese cat, Alfred, lounging on the kitchen countertop that’s technically supposed to be off limits.

 

**_Aww,_ ** she responds.  **_Is he fluffy or chubby?_ **

 

Jughead scoops Alfred up from the countertop and drops him onto the sofa.  **_Little bit of both,_ ** he texts back.  **_Sorry about the pause before - I was out for dinner._ **

 

Betty’s reply is quick and bright-sounding.  **_No worries :) I was on my way to the gym anyway. Which day would you prefer this weekend?_ **

 

He pauses before responding. She’d suggested coffee or a drink, and he suspects that the time of day probably dictates which of those they’d be choose. He quickly checks the forecast for the weekend - sunny, warm, breezy - then taps out a suggestion.  **_Saturday around one? Maybe grab coffee then go for a walk in Central Park?_ **

 

Jughead hits send before he can second-guess it. As soon as the message is gone into the aether, he thinks to himself,  _ Too cheesy, why did you do that?,  _ but soon is rewarded with  **_that sounds really nice_ ** from Betty.

 

**_It’s a date,_ ** he texts back.

 

.

.

.

 

Jughead spends the next two days alternating between thinking about his upcoming date and trying  _ not  _ to think about his upcoming date. He doesn’t text Betty except once on Friday morning, to agree on a place to meet the following afternoon. She doesn’t initiate a conversation either - at least not until later that evening.

 

When her message comes in, he’s two movies deep into an Alfonso Cuarón marathon. He’s just finished  _ Y Tu Mamá También,  _ having already watched  _ Gravity,  _ and is about to begin  _ Children of Men.  _ Jughead’s getting settled in for the dystopian thriller, a favourite of his, and he initially ignores the buzzing of his cell phone. It’s nearly midnight and he hadn’t blown off any plans or anything, so he assumes the message is just a pointless one from Archie.

 

But then his phone buzzes for a second time, then a third, and a fourth, and he grabs it.

 

All four messages are from Betty, which he hadn’t expected. The first is a photo of her wearing a strappy white tank top with the attached inquiry,  **_too much cleavage for a first date?_ ** _ ,  _ followed quickly by:  **_sorry, that was meant for my cousin_ ** _ ;  _ then  **_how embarrassing, maybe whatever killed the dinosaurs will come for me soon_ ** _ ;  _ and finally  **_or maybe it’ll come for you, whatever works._ **

 

Jughead smiles at the succession of texts. He enlarges the photo, unable to stop himself from answering her question, at least for himself (it’s a tasteful amount, not that he’d ever complain one way or the other). While he’s trying to think of a funny response, she sends a fifth message:  **_I promise that I really am not this much of a mess normally._ **

 

He laughs at that, drops a finger in the neckline of his t-shirt and drags it downward to form a sharp V, then takes a photo of his chest. He sends it to her along with  **_our cleavage will match, don’t worry,_ ** to which she replies,  **_I didn’t know you were that kind of girl._ **

 

Before he can type out a response, his phone starts to actually ring. This is a true shock, considering that the only people that have called him in the last three months have been delivery people unable to access his building, and it takes Jughead a second to stumble over pausing  _ Children of Men  _ before he can answer. 

 

“Hello?”

 

“Hi. It’s Betty.” Her voice is light, but he can hear the choke of embarrassment in her tone, even over the phone. “From … the train. And from your phone, just now.”

 

Jughead chuckles. “Hey. Yeah, I remember. What’s up?”

 

There’s a sort of shuffling noise on the other end, then she answers, “Nothing, I - I’m overthinking this, but I wanted to call and let you know that it really was a mistake. The text, I mean. I know that’s a move, probably, the oops-here’s-a-picture-of-me, but I really was trying to get fashion advice from my cousin.”

 

“Okay,” Jughead says slowly. “No worries. It’s not the worst photo someone’s ever sent me. Don’t worry about it.”

 

“I just didn’t want you to think I was … I don’t know.”

 

“Don’t worry ab -”

 

“It’s been a while since I’ve been on a date,” Betty interrupts, her words rushed and fast, as though she’s been trying to get them out and if she doesn’t say them in one breath, it won’t happen. “I broke up with someone almost a year ago. And we’d been together for a couple of years. So it’s been awhile since I’ve had a first date. I might be rusty.”

 

Jughead laughs. “Hey, that’s cool,” he says gently. “It’s been awhile since I’ve been on a date, too.” He reaches up and runs a hand through his hair, which is finally loose from his beanie. “Though um - I’m glad we both agree it’s a date.”

 

“Did you not think it was?” she asks, sounding slightly panicked.

 

“No, I did,” he assures her. “But you know. I’ve seen that sitcom before.”

 

“Oh.” Betty sounds relieved. “I know what you mean. ‘Oops, there’s been a misunderstanding!’”

 

“Exactly.”

 

It’s her turn to laugh now. It’s soft but almost melodic; lyrical, somehow. “I’m excited for tomorrow,” she tells him.

 

Jughead smiles at Alfred, upturned on his lap, who regards him with mild disinterest before flicking his tail and rolling onto his stomach. “I am too.” 

 

She exhales into the receiver. “Cool. Well, I guess I’ll see you then.”

 

“For sure,” he confirms. “And hey, Betty?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Don’t stress about outfits. I’m going to think you’re beautiful no matter what you wear.”

 

She doesn’t speak right away, but when she does, he swears that he can hear the smile in her voice. “Well, now I’ve got to come dressed in a garbage bag just to test that theory.”

 

.

.

.

  
  


She doesn’t.

 

Nor does she wear the white top from her photo. Instead, the next day, when he enters the Starbucks they’ve chosen and she rises from a table in the back corner, she’s wearing a peach-coloured sundress. It’s pretty and highlights the smooth sweep of her collarbones, which he has a sudden and inexplicable urge to taste.

 

“You look beautiful,” Jughead tells her as he approaches. 

 

“Oh you always say that,” Betty jokes, giving him a hug. “You look nice too.”

 

He appraises his jeans and t-shirt. It is, at least, new flannel. “I’m predictable.”

 

“I like plaid,” she comments, leaning her weight on one leg. “Did you want to get a coffee to go, or have it here first, or -”

 

Jughead shrugs and glances nervously to the window. “It’s nice outside.”

 

When he looks back, Betty’s smiling at him. “Iced coffee it is, then.”

 

They get drinks - he an iced americano and she an iced latte (at which point he’d bit his tongue to prevent his regular  _ a latte needs steamed milk, you just paid six dollars for a glass of milk and cold espresso  _ rant from escaping) - then shuffle slowly to the edge of the park.

 

He finds out that she lives just off West 45th, that she has a sister named Polly who accidentally dated their cousin, and that she’s always wanted to work in publishing. In return, Jughead tells her about his boring day job in procurement and about his dream: the half-finished novel weighing on the storage balance of his Google Drive account. She laughs at his stupid jokes, argues with him about Quentin Tarantino, and by the end of the afternoon, Jughead’s pretty sure he’s in love with her.

 

They take the same train home, with Betty’s stop approaching first. He gets off at her station to avoid their farewell being rushed on the train, and she smiles into the kiss that he gives her on the platform.

 

“Can I see you again?” Jughead asks, slightly breathless, his hand still on the curve of her waist.

 

Betty smiles against his chin, and then, with her lip between her teeth, nods. “You’ll have to,” she giggles, “I forgot to bring your umbrella.”

  
**fin**

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying to get my wheels turning again; please leave some thoughts!


End file.
